Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Burning Scarlet

when the fever rises in my blood
I ache for the simple, soft, and sweet
for shoulders to lean against
and the crook of the neck
where peace always makes itself home
my fingers curl to be holding someone
child or man or family
only to meet palm to palm
with the grasp of growing darkness
so that the burning can stop
doused in blue eyes and my teardrops